


Notice

by CanonCannon



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Bisexual Daryl, Demisexuality, Embarrassed Daryl, Facials, Feels, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, Insecurity, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Pretend Spencer Survived The War And Still Has Guts, Racism, accidental facial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-08-28 15:25:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8451682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanonCannon/pseuds/CanonCannon
Summary: Daryl isn’t sure when he started noticing Paul Rovia. Not the kind of noticing that a truck thief or escaped prisoner should get, and not the kind of notice that a new friend or worthy comrade deserved, either.He just feels compelled to look at the guy, as if he’s sighted some quick animal that might dart behind a tree at any second.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> See endnotes for possible trigger warning.
> 
> EDIT 12/15/16:  
> I got a tumblr (https://canoncannon.tumblr.com) so I can keep up with the rest of the fandom a bit more... no clue what the hell I'm doing, but hey, follow me!

Daryl isn’t sure when he started _noticing_ Paul Rovia. Not the kind of noticing that a truck thief or escaped prisoner should get, and not the kind of notice that a new friend or worthy comrade deserved, either.

He just feels compelled to look at the guy, as if he’s sighted some quick animal that might dart behind a tree at any second.

He longs for the days when Paul had been nothing more than a nuisance with an obnoxious nickname. Although looking back now, it burns Daryl up to remember what a complete ass he’d made of himself when they first met: sprinting to attack a damn trashcan, carefully tightening knots that held for all of ten seconds, tripping over his own fucking feet chasing the hippie around a field, and capping it all off by failing to keep the truck above water. Paul must have thought he was subhumanly stupid, one level above the fucking walkers.

Probably still thinks that, really. It’s not like Daryl’s ever done anything to contradict his first impression. Most of his time in the same room with Paul follows a predictable pattern: he slouches around hoping Paul will talk to him, only to forget how his tongue works the moment the other man tries. Hell, he’s doing good if he manages to stay in the room at all. Often as not, he finds himself lingering in places Paul might turn up, then leaving abruptly when he does.

This unprecedented, disturbing _noticing_ had gradually set up shop in Daryl’s thoughts over the past few weeks, and no matter how much he tries to evict it from his head, the noticing just keeps happening.

It’s getting worse by the day.

Paul isn’t helping, the little shit. He messes with Daryl constantly. Yesterday the scout had complimented his smile in front of God and everybody, then laughed loudly in his blushing face--still in front of God and everybody. Rosita and Tara had laughed, too, but at least they'd looked a little guilty afterwards. Daryl isn’t sure if the joke is that he actually has a hideous smile or that he’d blushed so hard at the compliment, but just to be safe, he’s now trying not to smile or blush at all when Paul’s nearby. He’s managing alright with the smiling, but the blushing is beyond his control a lot of the time.

Because Paul also touches Daryl a lot, certainly more than anyone else since Carol moved to the Kingdom. It’s always unexpected pinches and obnoxious tripping and once, when no one was around, determined tickling after sneaking up on him in the forest. And Paul’s touch always, always, always dyes the hunter’s face bright red.

The scout is playing some kind of game, and Daryl can’t even figure out the rules, much less a strategy to win.

It’s all embarrassing as hell, even if no one else has noticed him noticing.

Fuck, he hopes no one has noticed.

Probably a pipe dream, considering Daryl had nearly bit Rick’s head off not half an hour ago for suggesting that he and “Jesus” start pairing up on high-priority runs, including a scouting mission the very next day. Just the two of them, Rick said. Maybe even take the bike so they conserve fuel.

Daryl hadn’t been able to come up with a single halfway-decent reason for not wanting to pair off like that. He and Paul hadn’t fought together much during the war—like all the best fighters in the communities, both men were typically put in command of their own small squad—but on the rare occasions they’d worked together, they’d been a fast, silent, and deadly team.

The hunter has mostly kept quiet and followed orders since his family had rescued him from the Sanctuary, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to let Rick send him off on his bike with Paul Rovia pressed against his back. Just the thought made him feel itchy and anxious. He ended up stuttering out some bullshit about not trusting the little hippie prick.

Rick just snorted. “Uh-huh. You know he’s earned our trust about a hundred times over. Want to tell me the real reason?”

Daryl emphatically did not, so he just pressed his chapped lips together. Rick got the idea.

“Look, I’m sorry if you’re uncomfortable, but it just makes sense for these types of scouting trips. You two move quick and fight well together. Anytime we need to scope out an unknown location, there’s a risk—of walkers, bad people, whatever,” Rick said with raised eyebrows and his hands perched condescendingly on his hips. “No one else can do what you two can, your tracking and his ninja Houdini act. Who else can I trust to have your back like that?”

“Aaron-” Daryl started desperately.

“This was Aaron’s idea. He’ll keep scavenging neighborhoods nearby and looking for new people to bring in, probably with Rosita or Tara. But we need to start looking further out for critical supplies: guns, medicine, and fuel.” Rick paused before continuing in a careful voice, “Jesus was on board. Seemed pretty enthusiastic, to be honest.”

And of course Daryl couldn’t think of a thing to say to that, so he just grunted.

Rick smiled, knowing he'd won. The smug bastard. “Great. Come on over tonight for dinner, we’ll talk out the plan then.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl and Jesus have a misunderstanding.

At dinner, Paul’s wearing jeans— _tight_ jeans—and a loose gray tank top that Daryl hasn’t seen before. The smaller man’s light brown hair is tied on top of his head in some kind of knot.

Daryl hasn’t caught a single word of the plan for their run tomorrow.

Instead, he sits at Rick’s dinner table with his eyes on his salad bowl while the long-haired prick across from him practically plays _footsie_ with him. He also winks when Rick suggests they keep an eye out for condoms, and who the hell winks in real life, anyhow?

Rick had listed condoms right alongside athlete’s foot medication and prescription eyeglasses, but Paul still makes it seem like a dirty joke.

The hunter isn’t stupid enough to read anything into it; Paul is much the same with everyone. And by that Daryl means he's a goddamn menace. He and Eric make a regular game of trying to sneak innocent-sounding sexual innuendo into their conversations with Father Gabriel. And Paul and Tara are the worst: they hold hands, kiss each other on the cheek, fucking cuddle on the sofa. Hell, if Michonne weren’t off with Carl watching some superhero movie over at Tobin’s, Paul would probably be flirting with Rick’s girlfriend right now instead of Daryl. He's that bad.

Paul might not mean anything by his flirting, but Daryl can’t help the adrenaline rush he feels at the concentrated attention. When the scout’s socked foot _rubs_ his ankle, he's horrified to feel his cock stirring. He tries desperately to keep any visible reaction contained, but his sudden stillness just makes Paul do the same move again. This time Daryl jerks his feet backwards, knowing his face is beet red.

He glares up at Paul furiously through his bangs, only to find that the scout’s wide eyes are glued to Rick’s face, apparently all polite attention for their leader. There’s a hint of a smirk on his lips, though.

The smirk is… sexy. _Damn it, Dixon, what the hell is wrong with you?_ Daryl thinks to himself, keeping his feet well back under Rick’s ugly kitchen chair and pressing his knees together. He wants to knock that smirk off Paul’s face.

Actually, he wants to do something else entirely with that smirking mouth, but even with his dick straining in his pants Daryl won’t let himself think about it.

Not that he's surprised by the intense flood of attraction, he just knows better than to let himself dwell on such a ridiculous fantasy. It’s not the first time it’s happened. He’d even almost kissed the man once, although he was so mixed up at the time that he’d been able to excuse the impulse as a brief spat of insanity.

That was the night Paul had half-carried Daryl, bleeding, pale, and shirtless, out of the Sanctuary. His guards had cut their initials into his back, new cuts blending grotesquely with old scars. They’d made him eat dog food and drink water from a bowl on the floor. They’d taped the polaroid of Glenn’s crushed head above his bed.

The hunter still gets panicky thinking about it, so mostly he tries not to.

Paul had seen all of it, all the humiliation Daryl had endured, and yet the smaller man had been so nonchalant, making little jokes from the moment he picked the lock of the cell. He’d treated Daryl exactly as he’d always done. The normalcy had somehow allowed Daryl to move, functional enough not to fuck up his own rescue.

Meanwhile, Daryl had stared at Paul that night like he was the actual incarnate son of God.

“Jesus?” he’d asked, voice tearing like barbed wire, unable to bring himself to say anything else. He didn’t think he could handle the agony if this turned out to be a dream. His hands were shaking so hard that the smaller man was struggling to pick the handcuffs.

“Hey,” Paul had said, one gentle hand on his shoulder and the other circling his trembling wrist. “You’re ok, it's all gonna be ok now. Just gotta get you out of here, yeah? Try to hold your hands steady, cause if I try to go back to Alexandria without you I’ll probably end up locked in Carol’s basement eating Puppy Chow.”

Daryl had choked on a quiet laugh, aware of the tears running down his face but not able to care. He wouldn’t have been able to pull himself together at that point even if he'd had the energy to try.

Paul’s face had been close, his eyes intent on his work, and Daryl remembers feeling fascinated by his full, soft lips, ridiculous beard, nimble hands…

He's snapped back to the present by Paul standing from the table. Apparently dinner is over.

Rick keeps him back for a moment after Paul pulls his shoes on and leaves the house. “You alright? Seemed a little checked out tonight.” Christ, he’s using his big brother voice. Daryl’s the older of the two, but Rick is a relentless mother hen.

“M’fine,” Daryl says, eyes on the floor. He isn’t great at lying to Rick.

“This, uh, issue you got with Jesus, is it gonna be a problem on the run?”

“Nah.”

Rick tilts his head a bit to the left, eyes narrowing. “Alright then. I hope you two can work it out. I mean, he sure seems to like you."

"Likes annoyin' me, anyhow," Daryl says quickly, turning it into a joke even as his mind implodes. What on God's green earth did Rick mean by that? Because Rick Grimes was a smart guy, and if he thought Paul actually liked him then maybe...

"Yeah, I don't think that's it," Rick interrupts his thoughts, holding Daryl's gaze for a long minute. "Anyway, you tell me after the run if you really can’t work with him and I’ll reconsider.”

The hunter doesn't manage to respond. Thankfully, silence is normal for him. Rick seems unfazed.

“See you later. Be safe tomorrow,” he adds quietly.

Daryl nods, gratefully escaping onto the porch. He’s about to turn left to his house, but it occurs to him that he didn’t hear how long they’ll be gone, if he needs to grab his overnight pack. Hell, he didn’t hear when they’re meeting in the morning.

It couldn’t hurt to go ask Paul, right? No need to annoy Rick.

Feeling reckless, Daryl turns right instead of left, striding over damp grass to the scout’s house. It’s just next door. He can hear Paul moving on the porch.

“Hey asshole, thanks to you kickin' my shins all night, I didn’t hear…” Daryl begins, trailing off when he rounds the corner.

Spencer Monroe has Paul pinned against the wall, and they’re- well. Daryl looks away quickly. They’re busy.

And Daryl is the biggest fool left alive in this godforsaken world.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesus says the wrong thing.

 

“Shit, sorry! Sorry,” Daryl turns on his heel, sharp enough to leave a divot in the grass below. An unpleasant screeching fills his head and he knows he looks like a maniac practically jogging away across the lawn, but he can’t slow down.

There are angry whispers behind him, followed by Paul’s sharp, “Daryl! Wait! Daryl, come on, stop for a minute.”

A second later the scout is spinning him around by the wrist. Daryl almost throws a punch, but it’s a stupid impulse. It isn’t Paul’s fault that he got his hopes up like a jackass. So he restrains himself and crosses his arms instead, wondering what the hell Paul wants to talk about when he has Mr. Clean-Cut and Conventionally Handsome all hot and bothered waiting for him.

Paul doesn’t seem to know what he’s talking to Daryl for, either. His unsettling eyes are blinking rapidly, eyebrows drawn. “What… what are you doing here?” His cheeks are pinking up a bit. Daryl has never seen him blush before and would give anything to not be seeing it now, because of course this asshole even blushes attractively.

Surely the younger man didn’t think Daryl had been spying like some sort of pervert, right? No, he’d just come from Rick’s place.

Still, Daryl averts his eyes, focusing on a hedge close to the house. They stand a few feet apart, Daryl on the sidewalk and Paul on the lawn, the sound of buzzing katydids and chirping crickets loud compared to the men’s silence. Paul’s lips are redder than usual, or perhaps Daryl is just imagining that they are. Either way, raging jealousy boils in his stomach and spikes up his spine, but he ruthlessly knocks it back down again. There’s no fucking point.

Daryl’s never been great at talking to Paul, and now that the image of Spencer mauling the guy’s mouth is burned behind his eyes, he doubts he’ll bother trying to get better at it. Still, this awkwardness is painful. He needs to be normal for once in his fucking life so he doesn’t make a complete ass of himself. He needs to spit out some sort of socially acceptable bullshit. He needs to get the fuck away from that porch.

Paul’s still watching him. He’s obviously not leaving Daryl alone until he gets an answer, even though with his dazed blinking and his chest rising and falling heavily under his rumpled tank top the man sure looks like he’d rather be off with Spencer. Damn it, he’s got to be wishing Daryl would hurry up already so he could get back to it.

That thought spurs the hunter to speak, finally. “I, um, didn’t catch when we’re leavin’ tomorrow. Sorry to bother ya, I’ll ask Rick.”

There, that was normal enough, right? But Paul doesn’t respond, just continues to study him, green eyes oddly intense in the darkness. His brows are still furrowed and his lips are pursed tightly.

Whatever the reason behind the staring contest, Daryl decides he’s done. He tries to think of something polite to say to end the nonconversation, but everything he thinks of sounds pathetic in his mind. Eventually he gives up and starts backing away without another word.

He knows he’s going to his house to try to stamp this whole evening from his mind with a blunt bottle of Jack Daniels. Despite what he’d just said about asking Rick about the run, there’s no way in hell can bring himself to walk to his brother's door right now. This isn’t the first time that naive son of a bitch has been overly optimistic about Daryl’s likability. It is, however, the first time the hunter had actually bought it. And God, he’d bought it hook, line, and sinker—he’d been that desperate to believe Paul’s teasing _meant_ something, something good. But Daryl had been right all along about what it meant: Paul likes flirting, he likes laughing at Daryl, and Daryl’s a chump for taking any of it seriously.

 _Pathetic_ , he thinks at himself viciously as he digs his fingernails into his palms, turning to go.

Paul speaks up again, saying in a quiet, serious tone, “Stop walking away from me, damn it. Just… hear me out. I know what this looks like-”

“Not my business is what it looks like,” Daryl puts in rapidly, trying to sound disinterested, still half-turned away.

Paul laughs loudly, but it sounds off somehow, high-pitched and unhappy. “Oh fucking hell, Daryl, I’m going to need you to quit doing that, ok? Like, right now. I know you’re into me. I know it, you know it, Rick knows it, everyone in Alexandria and half the folks at Hilltop know it. You are many things, but subtle is not one of them, so just… could you please just _stop_ with that bullshit already?”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl is too embarrassed to figure out why Paul's still talking to him.

Daryl shuts down entirely. He covers his face with his hands and stands still for at least a full minute, then lets them drop helplessly before trying to stagger off. Paul might be talking to him still, he's not sure. He’s too horrified to think straight, all he knows is that he needs to escape—escape the conversation, escape Paul, escape Alexandria altogether.

Only he can’t, because Paul darts after him and halts him with a firm grasp on his bad shoulder.

This time Daryl does take a swing. It’s all instinct, wild and uncoordinated. Paul’s too fast for him, diving to the left then taking him down right there on the sidewalk. The little ninja pins him neatly, first heaving Daryl’s body over so he’s on his back, hands trapped up by his ears. Concrete scrapes the hunter’s wrists where Paul presses them into the ground and his right hip where his shirt has ridden up.

Some part of his mind contemplates the fact that ten minute ago he’d have found their position almost unbearably exciting. Now he feels like roadkill trapped under a tire.

“Fuck’s sake, Daryl, what the hell? Can you listen to me for one second…”

Wisps of hair are falling into Paul’s face above him. Vividly reminded of how neat his hair had looked at dinner, Daryl tortures himself for a moment by imagining Spencer’s fingers tangled in the locks.

He explodes, kicking and fighting. “Get off me! Why can’t ya leave me the fuck alone,” the hunter hisses, voice cracking on the last word. He tries to free his arms but Paul is deceptively strong for being so slight. Daryl can’t get enough leverage to shove him off. “Don’t want to hear nothin’ outta you, asshole.”

After pointlessly struggling against the smaller man awhile longer, he finally has to settle for glaring. He’s blushing violently yet again; his face feels hotter than hell and half of Georgia, but there’s no helping it. Thanks to his panting after Paul like a bitch in heat, everyone in town knows he’s… like that. Bisexual. Or, hell, they probably just think he’s gay. He’s not ashamed exactly, but it was supposed to be fucking private. It’s not something he’d have chosen to share with everybody and their mama, but they’d figured it out anyhow because he's so fucking obvious.

Hell, the only reason _he’d_ figured out he's bi is currently straddling him, which would be fucking dandy if Paul wasn’t also fresh from making out with a better-looking, younger, smarter, nicer, and almost undoubtedly more experienced guy.

The hunter just wants this hellish experience over with so he can crawl away and lick his wounds alone somewhere far out in the woods. It’s dangerous to go at night, but with the scout’s voice ringing in his ears ( _“I know it, you know it, Rick knows it, everyone in Alexandria…”_ ) Daryl would rather face a horde of walkers than face waking up in Alexandria tomorrow morning.

Daryl silently wills Paul to say his piece, give whatever speech he feels compelled to give so he can get the hell out of dodge.

Paul doesn’t say anything, though.

Instead, he leans down, hesitates for several seconds, then kisses Daryl softly on the mouth. A few strands of his long brown hair fall onto the pinned man’s face, gently tickling.

It hardly even registers at first. It’s so quick, a press of uncomplicated contact before Paul is pulling back, examining Daryl’s face in the dim light, noses about an inch apart.

The first thing Daryl thinks is that this puny little thing was nothing like the kiss he’d witnessed between Paul and Spencer. _That_ hadn't looked soft or hesitant at all.

Seconds later the realization hits that Paul is probably mocking him, or worse, pitying him. It puts the fight right back into Daryl.

“Go to hell,” he growls, planting his feet and trying to shove off from the ground, but Paul simply readjusts and holds on tight, using one leg to knock Daryl back on his ass. Daryl could knee his captor in the kidneys in this position but he’s not willing to actually hurt the younger man, and he can’t dislodge him otherwise.

Paul's frowning above him. “Alright, alright, point taken. Bad timing. In my defense, you said you didn't want me to talk.” Daryl ignores him and tries to jerk a wrist free, succeeding only in making himself bleed when he accidentally drags it over a sharp bullet casing that’s probably been sitting there since the war with the Saviors. “Could you cut it out before you hurt yourself?” Paul barks, sounding angry for the first time.

Daryl huffs and stops straining, kicking his foot out in a slightly undignified hissy fit. Paul looks amused by that, the bastard, his eyes crinkling and a small smile on his face. Daryl reconsiders his stance on damaging his kidneys.

“I’ve gone about this all wrong, haven’t I?” Paul asks. Daryl can’t meet his eyes, let alone respond. He doesn’t understand the question.

The scout leans in again for a moment but doesn't go for another kiss. He moves the other direction instead, plopping his ass on Daryl’s stomach, and that’s even worse. Daryl’s body is, well, _reacting_. Would the embarrassment never end? The smaller man probably hasn’t noticed yet—to keep Daryl’s arms pinned he had to settle himself pretty high on the redneck’s broad torso—but it’s only a matter of time.

Daryl turns his face away, breathing hard and clenching his eyes shut, honestly not sure he can endure this situation getting any worse. He already can’t handle whatever’s happening here, can’t handle being a joke to Paul.

Somewhere above him there’s a defeated sigh. “You know, I’d actually rather not settle this with you pinned to the sidewalk avoiding my eyes like a three-year-old, but I will if I have to.”

Daryl doesn’t dignify that with a response. He can’t help slumping a little, though.

“Yeah, well I don’t like it either, but you tried to _punch_ me, you dick,” Paul says. He doesn’t sound angry; if anything that amusement is back, making Daryl cringe. “If I let you up, can we talk? And I mean talk like actual grown-ass men, without me having to chase after you and then dodge your fists. If you can promise to stay put, I promise not to touch you again unless you ask me to.”

The hunter keeps his eyes shut, not sure if the other man is teasing him or not. Meanwhile Paul hesitantly removes his small hands from the older man’s bruising wrists, then takes the one that got scratched on the shell casing, rubbing it sweetly. The gentle touch goes straight to Daryl’s already hard cock. Paul’s just straddling him now, and the hunter realizes how odd they must appear if anyone's looking out a window. It would be easy to push Paul away now, yet Daryl stays still.

“I’m sorry, alright? I’m so sorry for this whole disaster. We need to figure things out. Can we please go somewhere more private?”

“Don’t I gotta take a number or somethin’?” Daryl asks pointedly, finally breaking his silence and opening his eyes, though he keeps them lowered. “Spencer is-”

Paul cuts him off, voice decidedly less patient than before. “Oh for the love of God, you cannot fathom how little Spencer matters to me right now, ok? I mean he's a nice kid, but I literally ran away from him to chase after you. Do you seriously think he’s waiting for me in the wings somewhere?”

Daryl finally tilts his head to look up at the other man, giving him a small shrug, and Paul’s face breaks into a grin under his beard. “There you are.” Daryl scowls and Paul just laughs at him, but it sounds different than usual. Fond, he decides, still thoroughly confused.

For the first time it occurs to Daryl that he didn’t pay nearly enough attention when Paul kissed him earlier—he has no memory of what that beard had felt like. How could he have missed it?

Paul finally crawls off of him, offering his hand to help the hunter up. “Let’s go to your place, alright?” Daryl ignores the hand and climbs to his feet on his own.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm worried Jesus comes across as a jerk here because he has to push for any real engagement. My head canon is that getting through to Daryl would be difficult, even for Jesus. It's not like he has immediate insight into Daryl's quirks at first, so he goes after him the way he'd go after anyone else. So from Jesus's perspective in this fic Daryl has been playing hard-to-get, and he doesn't realize how sensitive and damaged the guy actually is until this chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place entirely in Daryl's head--sorry if it's boring!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: Merle being racist. I chose to make Ana Mexican because I'm Mexican, and writing horrible racist shit about any other group would have felt weird.

Walking proves difficult. Daryl tries to keep himself a few steps ahead of Paul to hide his stubborn arousal, but the shorter man jogs every few paces to catch up with him. The hunter thinks frantically of his most disgusting walker kills hoping to make his ridiculous, unwanted boner die down, focusing particularly on how it had felt to smash a soft, pestilent head in a car door.

He doesn’t understand how Paul does this to him so easily. Daryl’s only had sex twenty times or so. Back before the turn, the fact that he wasn’t all that into sex had been his most shameful secret. Merle figured it out, or at least started to suspect, when some whore he’d pushed at Daryl came out of his room not ten minutes later, laughing about how he couldn’t get it up. After that the older Dixon had opined loudly and often that his baby brother wasn’t a man, that his dick must be broke.

There’d been one exception to the string of disappointments: Ana, a chick he’d known in his early thirties who rode a 1986 BMW R80 and worked with Daryl at his part-time gig in the town’s auto shop. They weren’t together—the girls in town knew better than to bring any Dixons home to meet Daddy—but they had sex sometimes when she was between boyfriends. Ana wasn’t hotter or kinkier than the others or any shit like that, but she’d been… cool. They had bikes in common, and Daryl found he preferred fucking someone he was friendly with over a random floozy in a bar.

Realizing that he could desire someone enough to enjoy sex without drugs or alcohol to smooth the way had been an earth-shattering relief.

Merle, the racist dickhead, chalked it up to her being Mexican, giving him constant shit for “liking it spicy,” telling him he’d better not knock her up and that he couldn’t expect his racially pure family to tolerate being in-laws with no “greasy spics.” He was all talk, though. The older Dixon brother had been so visibly relieved to see Daryl chasing pussy at all that he wasn’t even rude to her on the rare occasions Ana came by their trailer. When Ana moved to Atlanta he’d even asked, only half-joking, if he should keep an eye out for any cute wetbacks around town.

Ana had shown Daryl what all the fuss was about, and now something about Paul had woken his dick right the fuck up. Just touching himself recently is better than any sex he’s ever had, aside from those times with her.

Daryl startles when he hears voices up ahead filtering through the humid night air. Damn his life to hell, Michonne and Carl are coming around the street corner, walking home from their movie night. It's impossible to avoid them.

“I see Rick didn’t kill you with his cooking?” Michonne calls, a smile in her voice.

“It was just salad, thankfully,” Paul laughs, his easygoing ‘Jesus’ persona falling over him. “How was movie night?” Daryl wishes he knew how to do that, hide behind another personality like a shield. Maybe Carol could teach him.

As they draw closer Daryl folds his hands awkwardly over his dick. It’s finally softening, thanks to having to face family at such a ridiculous moment. Carl clearly wants to chat, jabbering to Paul about Ironman or something—the hunter can’t focus for shit.

Michonne gives both men a searching look before insisting that she and Carl have something important to do at home.

“Have a great night,” she adds, giving them a toothy smile that contrasts sharply with her flawless dark skin. Michonne steers the boy away with a hand on his elbow. After a few moments Daryl can clearly hear her say “Shut up, I’ll tell you later” in response to Carl’s whining.

Great, just fucking great.

Daryl looks back and finds her doing the same. She throws a knowing smirk at him over her shoulder, like she’s doing him some big favor, then she turns in towards her house.

Right. Like everyone else in this gossipy little suburban hell, she knows how badly he wants the man beside him. So she saw them walking towards Daryl’s place late at night and drew the wrong conclusion. Daryl dismally imagines explaining to her and Rick tomorrow that no, he didn’t finally get laid, and no, he and Jesus aren’t together, because Jesus is interested in Boy Wonder Monroe, not some dirty old hick—and who can blame him?

Glancing over at Paul, he finds that the other man is already looking at him. The scout smiles and bumps his shoulder, still fucking flirting after everything that's happened tonight. Daryl turns away with a noncommittal grunt.

Ok, so maybe, _maybe_ Michonne drew the right conclusion. It’s got to mean something that Paul’s even still talking to him right now, right? And now that Daryl’s embarrassment is on the back burner he doubts that kiss was some big practical joke—Paul is a flirt and he can take pranks too far, but he isn’t cruel.

And if it wasn’t a joke, what _was_ it?

Daryl trudges along deep in thought, and for once Paul isn’t running his mouth. His hands are somehow stuffed in the back pockets of those tight jeans with the thumbs sticking out, and he gazes up occasionally at the clear night sky. While the larger man can barely put one foot in front of the other, the scout appears to be utterly relaxed. It’s damned obnoxious, makes Daryl want to fucking scalp him.

Clearly Paul isn’t at all worked up about going home with him, just like he hadn’t been that into kissing him earlier. No surprises there, Daryl ain't exactly a prize.

So if Paul’s planning to sleep with him (and Daryl boldly decides that it _is_ a possibility, however small) then it’s got to be a pity fuck, or the smaller man is bored enough or horny enough that he’s up for a one night stand. Paul obviously knows Daryl’s good for it. His crush is literally visible from miles away, if those Hilltop fuckers really do know about it. Daryl crosses his arms, scowling.

They’re almost there—his fence comes into view, made of honest-to-god white pickets. Daryl’s mind is going a mile a minute, trying to figure out what’s going to happen when they get inside. He’s not nervous about the possibility of being with a guy for the first time; he’s extremely nervous that that guy is Paul Rovia. Why would someone like that ever…

Actually, fuck it. Truth is it don’t matter what motivations are going through the scout’s head. If the man wants him, Daryl already knows he’s going to let Paul have him. It’s sex with someone who sets his nerves on fire, someone so far out of his league he’s like a go cart dreaming of Nascar.

They finally reach the house. Paul follows him inside and closes the heavy oak door quietly behind them. Daryl stares at his living room like he’s never seen it properly before. It’s bare, boring, but at least it’s mostly clean, aside from mud tracks that lead to the kitchen and up the stairs. The living room looks exactly how it did when he moved in, minimalistic but distinctly feminine, probably decorated by some soccer mom. He spends his time in his bedroom or the garage.

He’d been too thoughtful to feel uncomfortable on the walk, but now it occurs to him that after their fight earlier, his silence probably made him seem even more like a bratty child. “You uh, want a beer or somethin’?” he asks, flipping on a lamp and trying to calm down. Now that they’re indoors the situation feels more intimate. He hasn’t been alone with Paul for any real amount of time since they hauled ass out of the Sanctuary.

“No thanks.” The scout is watching him like a hawk, hands loose by his side and leaning his back against the door. Daryl turns to sit on the pristine white couch.

Paul approaches slowly and sits beside him, close enough to raise Daryl’s heart rate. God, Paul is too beautiful to be believed, especially now that he’s smiling. His teeth are very even.

It reminds Daryl not to, in case his smile is awful.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They talk.

Silence sits heavy between them, and surprisingly it’s Daryl who breaks it. He thinks about asking what the hell the scout has going with Spencer, but whatever Paul said earlier, he knows it’s not his business.

So instead he starts with the other event burning a hole in his sanity: "Ya kissed me.”

"I did," Paul says, and smiles wider. To Daryl's eyes it doesn't look mocking.

“Why?"

"I tried to tell you outside, but you might have been too busy with your tantrum to pay attention. I like you," Paul replies, smiling away the whole time. Daryl's never met anyone as smiley as this guy, even before the world ended. “And in the interest of clarity, I mean both that I like being friends with you _and_ I’d like to fuck you.”

Daryl's eyebrows shoot up under his messy bangs and he struggles to keep his immediate euphoria under wraps. Likes him as a friend and… what does that _mean_? So much for clarity. If he had to guess—and he does, cause he'd rather eat his bike than ask for an explanation—he thinks Paul's asking to be fuck buddies.

The hunter breaks into a sweat. It's probably a terrible idea. He's definitely going to say yes. “D’you mean, uh, just tonight?”

“No, sweetheart, not just tonight. I thought I'd made that pretty obvious, but I can see I'm much more mysterious than I realized," the scout says, flirting now and smirking rather than smiling. Daryl can hardly believe this is happening—good things usually don’t—but if this is more fuckery then Paul's a good bullshitter.

Damn it, Paul definitely _is_ a good bullshitter.

But no, Daryl reminds himself, he’s already decided that Paul wouldn't go out of his way to mess with him like this. He's an annoying shit ("sweetheart," honestly, what the fuck?) but he wouldn’t toy with Daryl.

This is happening. If he can make it worth Paul's while, it might even keep happening.

Fleetingly he wonders how many other people Paul has had this talk with. Probably Spencer, for one. His stomach twists and he puts it firmly out of his mind. He'll take what he can get and be grateful. Maybe he can even get this stupid crush out of his system, stop being the laughingstock of their little towns.

He’d honestly like to jump on that, on Paul, right now, and to hell with the rest of this conversation. But no, Paul wants to talk ‘like grown-ass men’ and Daryl has got to stay calm, he refuses to seem overeager now when he's already been making a fool of himself over the little bastard for weeks. _Christ, keep it together, Dixon. You've gone without for years, you can make it awhile longer._

Only it feels like every single word that's ever lived in Daryl’s head has flown straight out his ears, and there weren’t many in there to begin with. He ends up blurting out the only one that’s left: “Why?”

God damn it.

The needy question doesn’t seem to bother Paul, though. He’s still gazing straight at Daryl with those huge fucking eyes. Ought to be illegal. "Why did I think I was obvious, or why do I like you?”

Daryl discovers that he is literally unable to form the words ‘Why do you like me?’ even if he wanted to ask. He just can’t let himself sound like such a damn girl about this. Maybe worrying about being girly shouldn’t matter when he wants to be sucking cock before the night is done, but regardless, he can't say it. He shrugs instead.

Paul rolls his eyes but doesn't call him on chickening out. The scout leans against the back of the couch, soft hand stroking his beard. "Well I thought I was being obvious because I was being really fucking obvious. Almost everyone here has given me some version of the 'break his heart and I break your neck' talk except Rick… and considering the fact that he definitely looked out the window and saw us while I had you pinned on the sidewalk, I'm gonna go ahead and pencil him in for early tomorrow morning before the run.”

He pauses, clearly expecting an outburst, and Daryl knows he should be horrified. And he will be, later, but for now he feels like he’s lost his capacity for embarrassment. It's blown a fuse from overuse.

It also helps that he’s very, very focused on not screwing anything up right now, because if he’s careful and doesn’t do anything too off-putting, Paul is going to put those soft-yet-strong hands on him at some point tonight.

If Paul is surprised by the hunter's lack of reaction, he doesn’t show it. He’s watching Daryl’s face closely as he continues, voice going all slow and sultry, "And I like you for all kinds of reasons." He inches closer. "I like your sense of humor and your crossbow. I like that you're the epitome of the strong, silent type. I like how you treat your family, you take care of them.”

He leans in, very close now but not still touching. "Apropos of nothing, I like how easily you blush," and damn it Daryl _is_ blushing again, of course he is, Paul's stalking him across the couch like a fucking bobcat.

"I like your arms," the hippie purrs, "and your eyes," and Paul looks directly into them, brushing aside Daryl’s bangs with one hand, sea green meeting blue-gray, "and your arms again, they deserve to be mentioned twice.”

Daryl is helpless in the face of the full-blown Paul Rovia seduction. It's hypnotizing.

Hell, this night might be all he gets and he's going to take it, grab it with both hands.

"I like-" but the hunter has already cut him off, leaning in and kissing him hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We need to talk about ratings, because smut is on the way.
> 
> In my mind, "M" covers most sexual acts, while "E" is reserved for pretty kinky/potentially triggery or squicky stuff. If that's not the way it usually goes on AO3 I'd definitely appreciate feedback so I can up the rating before the next chapter.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Misunderstandings are cleared up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut virgin here. Hope this chapter and the next one don't disappoint. Feedback is welcome!
> 
> Skip to the endnotes for a potential trigger warning.

Paul dives in enthusiastically. It's messy and glorious and Christ, Paul is crawling into his lap, straddling him for the second time tonight. It’s much better this time around.

Daryl’s never felt this frantic kissing someone before. He’s always been at least a little detached, able to keep his head. But Paul’s tongue is impossible to resist, pushy and sweet, just like him. His hands are rubbing Daryl’s arms, and that swells the hunter’s confidence. Paul likes his arms, he’d said so.

An absurd little fantasy plays in Daryl’s mind, that maybe this is a beginning for them. They can be fuck buddies at first, and maybe if they spend more time together, if he’s good enough, _maybe_ …

Paul calls his attention back with a sharp little bite on his lower lip, and Daryl groans aloud at the burst of sensation. He doesn’t have time to be embarrassed about how pathetic he sounds because Paul makes a low _mmmph_ noise right after, one hand moving to the back of Daryl’s neck and the other to his shoulder. Ten blunt nails dig in and the hunter keens, breaking the kiss for a moment before turning back desperately.

He pushes his hands into Paul's hair, clumsily removing the hair tie and letting his fingers comb through the long locks that smell faintly like vanilla. Daryl breaks the kiss to push his face into that scent, breathing it in in a long gasp. The action presses his stomach against Paul’s firm dick and they both react, Daryl with another loud moan and Paul with a rough exhale. Daryl feels himself get even harder--Paul really does want this from him.

The younger man moves his lips to Daryl's temple, and the typically grungy hunter spares a moment to thank a nonexistent higher power that he’d showered before dinner. Paul mouths at the thin scar near his hairline and runs delicate hands over his chest, pausing to pinch his nipple gently, then tweak it a bit.

“Ohmyfuckinggod," Daryl chokes out, hips surging up uncontrollably at the unexpected stab of pleasure. The girls he's been with have never paid his nipples any attention, but fucking hell, it’s good.

“Holy shit, Daryl," Paul breathes out, pulling back.

Too far away. Daryl tries to drag him back in but the scout laughingly stops him. “No, let me look at you. You’re… you’re so fucking sexy like this. I want, I _really_ want to take off your shirt now. Can I?”

It pulls Daryl out of the moment. There’s nothing sexy about what’s under his shirt.

He’s silent, looking up anxiously into those green eyes—eyes that are kind when Paul says, “I’ve seen it all before, remember. And I think every inch of you is beautiful.”

Daryl does remember, vividly.

He remembers wanting to die in that cell, and then Paul broke him out of the Sanctuary, ending a month of torture. Risking his own life for Daryl’s like it was nothing.

His wrists had felt so odd when the handcuffs were removed. He’d expected relief, but the ability to move his hands without pain had been more strange than anything.

Later Paul had to talk him down when he had a full-blown panic attack in the woods, thinking about what would happen if the Saviors caught him trying to escape. Daryl had almost turned back, obscenely terrified by the punishments he was imagining, but his rescuer had reassured the broken, trembling man that they’d get free, that they’d kill every single bastard who had hurt him.

Paul had later bandaged his back, being incredibly gentle and not asking a damn thing about his older scars.

Daryl remembers how he felt then, how he’s felt ever since.

Damn it, Daryl loves him.

Being fuck buddies was never going to work.

“I can’t,” Daryl’s voice goes all creaky, much higher pitched than normal. He’s flooded with guilt at the idea of blue balling the man who saved his fucking life.

Paul’s eyebrows crease in concern and he raises a hand to Daryl’s cheek, petting softly. It makes everything worse. “Hey, that’s alright. Keep it on.”

“Ain’t that. It's this- this whole thing. It ain’t gonna work." Part of him, hell, most of him is throwing a full-scale rebellion against those words, but he doesn't back down. He can’t accept being Paul’s next fling, not if he has a shred of self-preservation.

The scout closes his eyes, face growing pinched. "Please tell me you mean that the couch isn't going to work and I should take you to bed,” Paul says quietly, and he doesn't back away, throbbing dick still pressing against Daryl's stomach.

Daryl hates himself. "Nah, I meant-”

"I know what you meant," Paul snaps. Daryl shrinks back, and the scout visibly yanks himself under control, expression softening a little. "Fine, that's--ok. I’m sorry. I’m not angry, just wasn’t expecting… you know.”

“I’m the one that’s sorry," Daryl stutters out. Paul’s annoyance stings, even if he deserves it for being the worst sort of tease imaginable.

The hunter wonders if the other man will go looking for Spencer when he leaves, maybe apologize for chasing after an inexperienced, indecisive dumbass when he could have spent the night fucking Spencer from the get-go.

It hurts like a knife plunging into some soft, vulnerable part of him. But the idea of Paul fucking other people confirms that he’s doing the right thing by stopping this shitshow in its tracks. God, Daryl can only imagine how he’d feel if Paul planned on being _buddies_ with him and Spencer both—he’d have ended up moping all over town, writing poetry or some shit. Or he’d have put an arrow through Monroe’s neck.

No, he can’t go there, no matter how much he wants to.

Paul's been quiet above him, probably still wrestling his temper into place. Finally the scout exhales tightly through his nose and says briefly, “Explain."

It’s the last thing Daryl wants to do, but he figures he owes the man that much. “I don't wanna freak ya out or nothin', but this… ya already know it ain't the same thing for me that it is for you. I gotta get over it, and this ain't gonna help.”

“Ok… you realize you didn’t actually explain anything, right?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Daryl says harshly, but Paul just raises his hands in a shrugging motion, looking truly confused. "Ya seriously gonna make me say it?”

"I think you'd better.”

"I might- might love ya." He says it rapidly, but he can tell that Paul understood--the scout's whole body tenses. He still hasn’t budged from Daryl's lap and it’s definitely getting more and more awkward to have him so close. “M'sorry, can't help it. You fuckin’ saved my life, and you’re so… you’re so goddamn… look, I won't make it weird, ‘kay? But that's why I can't be fuck buddies or whatever.”

Paul's eyes widen almost comically. Almost, if Daryl's heart wasn't in his throat.

The younger man still doesn't move, doesn't back away with a laugh and some wisecrack. Daryl takes his shoulders tentatively and pushes a little. Paul stays exactly where he is.

And then Paul _invades_ his mouth. It's by far the most commanding he's been the whole evening, including when he shoved Daryl to the ground and pinned his wrists to the hard concrete. He holds Daryl’s head in place while his tongue plunges between stunned lips.

Then the younger man's small, nimble hands are everywhere: Daryl’s neck, shoulders, chest, stomach, face. Somewhere behind the kiss Paul makes delicious little whimpering noises. His eyes are clenched shut, an expression Daryl’s seen a dozen times when the scout is visualizing a mission. Combined with Paul’s lean body hovering above him on strong thighs, crushing him back into the couch with the force of his kiss, it’s the hottest thing Daryl's ever experienced in his life—hotter than any porn, and it leaves his previous lays and all his dirty little fantasies in the dust.

He lets it go on a lot longer than he should before finally turning his head and gasping, “Paul!”

"Shut the fuck up and let me ravish you, you oblivious idiot," Paul growls at him. It's not a voice the hunter's heard from him before. It’s low and violent, and Christ does Daryl like it. His dick feels ready to combust.

Paul takes advantage of Daryl’s turned head to lave and bite at his neck.

Daryl’s mind blanks on every objection—on everything, period—until the smaller man is done there. He doesn't even realize he's circling his hips, and he has no idea how much time has passed when Paul finally moves on, kissing down his collar bone. That mobile, plush mouth is sucking on the top button of his shirt when Daryl finally snaps back to reality.

"Paul, c'mon," he pleads, and something finally breaks through, because Paul throws himself backwards, clambering off of Daryl altogether. He's breathing hard and fast, lips red and pupils huge. Daryl’s eyes are glued to the bulge in his dark jeans, which Paul adjusts unselfconsciously, standing over the hunter in a huff.

“ _What_?" the scout asks loudly. His eyes are wild.

Daryl stares, unsure what to say. "Didn't ya hear me before?”

"I heard you. You're the one not hearing me.”

"Ya ain't actually sayin' much.”

Paul giggles. It sounds unhinged. “Anyone ever tell you you're really bad with subtext? Like, truly terrible.”

Daryl isn't sure what subtext is, so he just shrugs. Paul stands for a moment with his head tilted towards the ceiling, then climbs right back into Daryl’s lap. He’s nearly settled before the older man can even react. “Alright, I'm going to say this—stop squirming, Dixon—I’m going to say this once, and then you're going to let me have you, ok? Or I will fucking cry.”

Daryl stops squirming, but only because his dick is pressing against Paul's ass and it's distracting as hell. He shifts his hips trying to get more comfortable and only succeeds in _grinding_. He has to bite back a grunt. “Paul..."

The warm, delicious, flustered man in his lap licks his lips and continues. “No, seriously, I will cry, so listen closely. I might love you, too. Pretty sure I do, to be honest, and the only reason I didn't say it earlier is because it's actually pretty weird to talk about love before the first date. But what the hell, it's the apocalypse and life is even shorter than usual, so yeah. I love you. Now can we please please please  _please_ stop talking, because I've wanted to fuck you for months and I am so close I can practically taste it.” It actually sounds like he’s begging, too—like Paul fucking Rovia can’t wait to get battered old Daryl Dixon into bed.

Daryl blinks slowly, dumbfounded. That speech should be unbelievable, unimaginable even, and yet somehow... he doesn’t know if it’s the words or the tone, but somehow, incredibly, he thinks Paul's telling the truth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't THINK this could be interpreted as dub con in any real way, but Daryl gets confused about the situation and Paul's intentions. If you're sensitive to such things then please skip it. Sex doesn't occur until the next chapter, anyway.
> 
> One more chapter after this, plus a very short epilogue.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut.

Something snaps.

Daryl knows there are other questions he should ask, warnings he should give. Paul must be outside his damn mind to say that to him. The younger man has no idea how fucked up Daryl is, what he’s getting into.

But making out on the couch had unleashed a mudslide of desire, and the instant Daryl decides that he believes Paul’s declaration, his body rushes ahead of his brain.

The scout is saying “We can talk more first,” or something along those lines when Daryl stands up abruptly, hands moving under Paul’s thighs and ass to support him. The shorter man is left scrambling to hold on, his legs wrapping instinctively around Daryl’s waist. “What the fuck?!” he yelps, almost strangling the hunter with a viselike grip around his neck.

“Bedroom,” Daryl grunts, moving towards the stairs.

“Ok, sure, 100% on board with that—but could you maybe put me down so I can _walk_ there?”

Daryl considers for a moment. “Nah,” he decides, and starts up the stairs. Paul is light despite his muscled frame, but his giggling makes it harder to keep hold of him. Daryl reels a little when they reach the landing before kicking open his door. He throws out an arm to smash the light switch, then he haphazardly drops the scout onto the edge of his bed.

Daryl drops to his knees an instant later, going straight for the other man’s zipper. Paul squawks, “Daryl!” but the hunter ignores him, wrestling open the button and pulling down the zip. For all his enthusiasm, he’s careful about it. He’s moved on to unlacing Paul’s boots and has just yanked them off when he realizes the scout is snapping his fingers in front of his face.

Irritated, Daryl sits back on his heels. “We doin’ this? Ya were all gung-ho a minute ago.”

Paul grins down at him. Daryl wants to kiss him while he’s grinning, so he does, which makes the scout laugh. Daryl kisses him through that, too, before being gently smacked away. “Hell yes, we’re doing this, just need to cover some basics first.”

“Weren’t talkin’ about _basics_ when ya were bein’ fuckin' pushy downstairs.”

“I would have gotten there eventually. Maybe.” Those green eyes are twinkling. “The man of my dreams had just told me he loves me. It’s not _my_ fault things got out of hand.”

Daryl shakes his head. “Ya ever stop bein’ ridiculous?”

Suddenly Paul is all earnest puppy eyes, not laughing at all. “Hey,” he says, hand going to Daryl’s cheek, “I’m not being ridiculous.”

It’s more than Daryl can handle so he rolls past it, though he does lean into Paul’s hand. “Get to it, Rovia. What are these basics that are so damn important?”

“You done this before?”

“Of course I have! I’m forty-four for fuck’s sake.”

“Ok, ok,” the scout’s eyebrows shoot up. “Sorry, but... you aren’t exactly a walking pride parade.”

Shit, Paul had meant… right. Daryl lets his head fall forward before correcting himself. “Oh, um… nah, ain’t done that. This. With a guy, I mean. Sorry. Thought you were askin’ if I’m a damn virgin.”

Paul’s hand reaches out again and combs through his hair. “Don’t apologize. I just want to make sure this is something you’re ready for.”

“M’ready,” Daryl insists. God, he’s so ready he’s almost aching.

Paul smiles warmly, “Then I’m all yours. What do you want to do?”

The older man’s hands darts back towards Paul’s waistband. Feeling bold, Daryl strokes Paul’s cock through his open flies, savoring the heat behind the thin fabric of the scout’s briefs.

The scout gasps out, “I was looking for you to _tell_ me—with words—fuck it, you know what, we’ll figure it out as we go along.” With that Paul clumsily yanks his shirt over his head.

Daryl’s hand stills as he stares. He knows how strong Paul is, has seen him fight, but he still hadn’t expected this little compact ninja person to have such defined muscles.

He’s just mentally committed to keeping his own shirt on when Paul reaches for the top button, snagging it with one finger. “May I?” he asks, voice husky. Daryl is nodding before he understands the question, then feels too stupid to take it back.

So Paul tugs him forward and leans down, revealing the redneck’s chest and stomach button by button. Where Paul’s topless body is pristine, Daryl’s is a canvas of scars, tattoos, and slightly graying chest hair. He folds his arms, unable to help himself.

The younger man takes his forearms and gently uncrosses them. “Beautiful,” Paul says simply, then wraps a hand into either side of the open shirt to pull Daryl off of his knees.

They lay side by side on Daryl’s single bed. Just the feeling of their thighs brushing sends shocks of pleasure through the hunter’s spine. Both men lean in, touching their lips together gently for a moment before Daryl whines and presses deeper.

Paul moans, opening his mouth so their tongues can twine together. Daryl presses harder still, shifting their weight so that Paul is on his back with the larger man half on top of him. Then the hunter breaks the kiss and moves down down _down_ , eyes skimming skin that he’s too shy to touch, until he’s hovering over Paul’s dick.

Wide green eyes gaze down the bed at him, and Paul folds his arms behind his head with a cocky smile. “Go on,” he says, raising his hips subtly, and it’s so fucking sexy Daryl can hardly breathe. 

He tugs those tight jeans off, then the green briefs below, and even yanks the white socks away. And god, the scout is letting him do all this, laying back passively while Daryl strips him.

Paul Rovia is naked in his bed, his perfectly proportioned dick completely hard, laying flat against his sculpted pelvis. Everything about him is so neat: trimmed pubes, hairless chest, generous muscle tone. The hunter lets himself devour the sight.

Daryl’s pants are nearly chafing him. His shirt is open but he’s fully dressed otherwise. And yet it’s not even difficult to ignore it all, from his heavy arousal to the feel of his clunky boots snagging on his unmade bed, because he has to have that cock in his mouth right this fucking second.

“Ain’t gonna be any good at this. Don’t know what the hell m’doing,” he admits with a small frown, before leaning in and running his dry lips down the length in front of him. He follows the action with his tongue, flattening it and lapping hard against the soft, soft skin of Paul’s erection. There’s a sharp hiss from somewhere above him, and Daryl can’t tell if it’s pain or pleasure.

Damn it, this has to be good. He can't afford to be terrible at sex if he's going to keep Paul interested. Daryl pulls back and grits out, “Tell me what to do,” resting his forehead on Paul's belly.

“Is that what you like? Being bossed around in bed?” The scout traces his neck with a single finger, making Daryl shiver.

“Dunno, just...” He looks up and begs, “Tell me what to do, how to suck you. Please.”

“Oh god,” Paul moans. Then, “I can do that.” Daryl waits wordlessly. It doesn’t take the scout long to get started. “First thing I want is for you to take your clothes off, if you’re ok with that, because you are so fucking hot and I want you naked while your mouth is on me. What do you say?”

Nodding stupidly, Daryl leans down and pulls off his boots and socks, then drags his jeans and boxers past his hips and down his legs. His dick is straining forward, flushed red with a tiny smear of dampness at the tip. Daryl hopes desperately that Paul can’t see it, the evidence of how overexcited he is.

He shucks his shirt last, keeping his back turned away. Paul doesn’t seem to give a shit; his eyes are too busy roving his front. “Touch yourself,” he growls. “Just a tease.”

Daryl swirls his hand slowly around his rigid cock. He’s not trying to put on a show; the delicate touch feels like all he can handle.

In front of him, he sees Paul’s dick twitch slightly. The smaller man moves one arm from above his head and reaches forward, pulling Daryl back in position. “Go ahead, love, if you’re sure you want to. No need to jump in at the deep end, you know, if you want to start with something else.”

But Daryl _wants_. Putting his hands gently on Paul’s narrow hips, he starts taking that gorgeous cock into his mouth, inhaling a clean, slightly musky scent that drives his arousal even higher.

It takes awhile to get used to it. He gags almost right away, trying to fit Paul’s entire length into his mouth. Paul’s hand threads into his hair, tugging him off. There’s a moment of terror when Daryl thinks he’s failed already, that he’ll be asked to stop, but Paul just says, “It’s easier with a hand on the base.” Then he strokes a thumb against Daryl’s cheekbone, like Daryl is some precious thing.

It is easier after that, though it’s also messier and noisier than Daryl remembers from the two times he’s had a blowjob. Of course, he’d been wasted both times. Now he’s gloriously present, conscious of everything: Paul’s deep, rapid breathing. The way Paul is getting harder and harder in his mouth. The tiny motions of his hips. And, most importantly, the way the scout's strained begging shifts into moans and half-words as the minutes pass.

“Use your tongue when you pull back, love” and “Take your other hand and press beneath my balls, there, right fucking there,” become “The tip, just the tip,” and “Yeah- yeah- fuck, harder, suck harder, oh _God_ Daryl” until Paul’s not saying anything at all, simply making noises.

It’s not long after that that the scout tugs Daryl’s hair urgently, trying to move him backwards. It’s obvious why, but Daryl wants Paul’s come in his mouth so he ignores the insistent grip.

“Too good, I’m- Daryl, you should- you- Daryl, _fuck_ ,” and then Paul yanks his hips back into the mattress, surprising Daryl enough that the hunter doesn’t follow the motion and Paul’s cock explodes against his lips instead, some of the mess dripping into his mouth but most of it going down his chin.

Paul groans, low and long, before jolting back to himself. He looks shellshocked. “Oh my god, I am so sorry. I just- you weren’t stopping and we didn’t have a condom, and I… Shit, I’m sorry, Daryl. Shit. Here,” and he hands over his shirt.

Daryl wipes his face down, trying to gauge how upset Paul is and whether it would be rude to start jerking himself off, because he is dying to. Paul is the one blushing and mortified for once; Daryl doesn’t give a shit about getting some come on his face, he really needs to get off _now_. He’ll use his hand if he has to, but he’s really hoping for more of the man beneath him. Any part of that firm, strong body will do, he just needs it soon. He’s burning up.

Something of this internal struggle must show on his face because Paul leans forward and pulls him close, one hand wrapping around Daryl’s length and the other squeezing his ass obscenely. “Fuck my hand,” the scout whispers in his ear, and it’s so different--that hand is so much smaller and softer than Daryl’s, no big callouses from a crossbow or little round scars from cigarette burns.

“Next time, I'm doing that to you. I'll take ages,” Paul says roughly. “I'll keep you on the edge for _hours_.”

Too needy to be bashful, Daryl thrusts four, five times before growling and biting into Paul’s shoulder as he pulses come across the younger man’s stomach. He falls asleep to Paul petting gently down his back, those gorgeous hands completely ignoring the wide scars that mark him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by all the fanart where Daryl is carrying Jesus... y'all are doing the Lord's work.
> 
> Also "little compact ninja person" is a quotation from Tom Payne about his body. Made me laugh so I fit it in here.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy little epilogue.

“So you thought if you pissed me off enough, I’d snap and decide to fuck you?” Daryl is both grumpy and amused at the thought.

“I’m sorry, is that not what just happened?” Paul asks innocently.

It’s a little bit funny now that they’re naked and sharing Daryl’s tiny bed in the early morning light, but it sure as hell wasn’t funny during the endless weeks he’d spent pining over this tricky little bastard. “Good lord, all ya had to do was stop fuckin’ around and talk to me. Ain’t difficult.”

“Mmm, difficult enough that I had to physically tackle you and hold you down to get you in a chatty mood. Besides, I tried to be a gentleman about it and court you properly, but you kept running off before I could get a word out. I’d have given up hope if I hadn’t had half your family threatening to murder me and the other half feeding me advice. Turns out Carol’s new commitment to nonviolence doesn’t extend to me, by the way. Aaron is a hell of a wingman, though. You should bring the guy a deer or something. He kept saying you just needed a ‘Come to Jesus’ moment.” Paul glances at him and starts giggling. Daryl just gawps. “Yeah, that’s the same face Eric kept making. I don’t know if Aaron even got the innuendo. But seriously, if the little trip he arranged for today hadn’t worked, I think there would have been some kind of gay intervention in your future.”

Daryl is glad it didn’t come to that. He also really wants to stop talking about his family trying to get him laid, so he changes the subject a bit. “Pfft, doubt you’ve been a gentleman once in your whole life. Fuckin’ pervert. I’ve heard you tormentin’ the priest.”

“Hey, I can be a perfect gentleman when I so choose. You'll see. It’s all flowers and candlelight from here on out, sweetheart.”

“Uh huh. And what about Spencer, huh? You call havin’ two guys in one night-”

“Hold on, I didn’t _have_ -” Paul tries to interrupt.

The hunter just talks louder. “Yeah, ya didn’t go through with it, but still—ya call that bein’ a gentleman?”

“Ok, I can’t tell if you’re joking or if you’re actually still jealous, so in all seriousness: yeah, Spencer was looking for a good time. We spent one night together during the war, he wanted a repeat and you have shit timing. End of story. But I was never going to say yes to him and I’m sorry now that I didn’t throw him off right away. He was, uh, pretty forceful about it, and I didn’t want to hurt him.” Paul grimaces around the words. “Didn’t realize I would end up hurting you instead.”

Daryl is still furiously jealous, plus that comment about Spencer being forceful makes him want to bludgeon something. “Do I need to stomp his ass?” he asks, peering at the gorgeous man in his bed.

Paul just snorts, burrowing his forehead against Daryl’s arm. “If it needed to be done, I’d do it myself, Dixon. It’s fine. Actually I probably owe him an apology; I wasn’t all that nice to him before I came running after you.” The smaller man’s hair is a tangled wreck.

“Eh, kid’ll get over it.” Daryl reaches across the bed and presses a kiss to Paul’s temple, unable to help himself. The bedhead is just too endearing.

He’s so screwed and he knows it. Fuck, his cock is plumping up just from _messy hair_. He kisses Paul’s temple again, trying to make it sexier by slipping in a tiny sliver of tongue.

But Paul, the wordy motherfucker, isn’t done jawing yet. “Hey, I should have said earlier—I’m sorry I kept kissing you last night after you said to stop. That wasn't ok."

“Don’t care,” Daryl grunts, trying to tug Paul on top of him. Christ, they've had sex once and Daryl would already do anything to keep him.

Paul smiles against his neck. “I mean, I thought I was ten seconds away from fucking the _man of my dreams_ when you hit the brakes. Wasn't thinking clearly after that. But still, I’m really sorry.”

"Shut up," Daryl says, embarrassed but secretly thrilled by that stupid phrase. He runs his hands over the smaller man’s firm ass, just because he’s allowed to.

"I was hoping you'd understand my feelings from my reaction, but you're really bad at reading me. It's fine, we'll work on it. From now on if I’m going wild trying to ride your dick, that means I love you, ok?"

"Shut _up_ ," Daryl repeats, but now he's laughing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First completed fic... huzzah! Hope you enjoyed it :)

**Author's Note:**

> Torture is described very briefly.
> 
> Sex will be described less briefly.


End file.
